


The Art of Falling

by speculate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Analysis, F/M, M/M, Second Person, the pairing is mostly implied, there's no real content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speculate/pseuds/speculate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You fall out of love just as quickly as you fall into it. Or, a short analysis of John Watson's life and how it all led to the best part of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Falling

**Author's Note:**

> a character analysis-type-deal about john watson i wrote a couple years ago that i still think is pretty rad.

You remember a lot of things, but some memories are just there. They mean nothing. You can’t place them or understand the meaning of them. You’ve come to terms with that, the useless knowledge, over time.

One of your more prominent memories is when you’re five. You have no idea why you remember it, but you do, and you probably always will. It’s your birthday, and there are only four people there. Your mom, you dad, your sister, and your best friend. Your dad leaves to go to work about a half hour in. Your mom gets fed up with Harriet’s whining (she’s not Harry just yet) and goes inside not long after that, refusing to deal with her children (the issues) any longer. You think it’s your fault, but you haven’t done anything wrong. Harriet hands you a tissue when you start sniffling, but a week afterwards she breaks your favorite toy. Your best friend fades into oblivion a year later, and you can’t even remember his name.

This day sets the tone for what the rest of your life will be like for a very, very long time. You’re sixteen when you realize that.

Mother’s just gone away. Harriet (Harry, very soon) cries for days, and she shrieks and yells at you and your father. You don’t usually snap at Harriet (it’s your job to comfort her), but one day you just break in two and scream, “She left me too, Harriet! It’s not always about you!” Your sister doesn’t talk to you for days, but you feel a little better after letting that out.

You begin letting other things out, too. You tell your father how much you hate him. You tell him that he’s never there for his two kids who just lost their mother. He yells at you, this time. “She left me too, John! It’s not always about you!”

A year after that, you fall in love for the first time. It’s the first time you fall. She doesn’t even know your name; you admire her from afar. It’s a pointless fall—there’s no adrenaline, which is the only enjoyable part of the whole bloody affair. There’s only the pain of hitting the ground when you crash back into reality. She doesn’t even know your name.

You fall out of love just as quickly as you fall into it.

Harriet becomes Harry when you’re eighteen. You’ve got a lot of things to worry about (graduation’s coming up, and then what? you wonder constantly, with great trepidation, once you realize you’ve got no plans for the future) but your sister’s adding to the list. She’s going through a phase where she’s finding herself, a bit too late for your liking, but you don’t get to choose when things happen in her life. She meets Clara, and then she falls, just like you did. Only Clara knows how to recuperate feelings, unlike your first “love”. You can’t even remember her name, now. (See, chin up, Johnny boy, she didn’t matter all that much, now did she?) Harriet realizes she loves women (she still loves you, though, she’s gotten into a phase where she tells you that a lot, because you and Clara are the last she’s got left since that spat with Father) and becomes Harry soon after. She feels like herself for the first time in ages, and, if only for a moment, you think things might be changing.

You meet Jeanette at your high school graduation. She’s gone to your school for as long as you have, but you’ve never met her (you’ve got to get out there a bit more, meet new people, do new things; experience; live, before you die). She’s been the one for you, and you could have had her for so much longer, but she’s always been just out of your reach (better late than never, you think). You date for a month before you realize you’ve fallen again, and think, this can’t be good. It never is. But then you remember how happy Harry is with Clara and you wonder if maybe you can have that, too. You haven’t been happy for a long time (you haven’t let yourself let your guard down). But you remember how well things are going and wonder if Jeanette is just another positive change in your life. For a while, you think so.

You and Jeanette decide to go to the same community college (see, she had no plans either! Calm down, John, calm down, it’s all okay) so you can spend more time with each other. You think it’s the perfect plan, for just long enough to make you smile. You’re nineteen, about to start the rest of your life in college with the woman you believe to be the love of your life, when your best friend Stephen makes a split decision and goes into the medical field. He does it in honor of his brother, who’s just died. He’d been sick for a very long time, but the death had been shocking. They’d thought he’d been getting better. You worry that this is some sort of sick metaphor, some sort of jinx on your wellness, but you shake it off and wear your best suit to the funeral.

Two weeks later, you walk into Jeanette’s flat and find her with another man. She tries to say sorry, tries to tell you that he doesn’t mean anything, that you mean something, you, John Watson, and no one else, but you’re tired. You want something solid in your life. You take your things in a box and say goodbye to her. You go into the medical field with Stephen and get your license as a doctor by the time you’re twenty-seven.

You fall many times in between college and becoming a doctor and Afghanistan, but those memories are some of the irrelevant ones, the ones that don’t matter or can’t be placed in a certain area of your brain. You used to think that memories are important, that they make you who you are, but you’re realizing that they’re just not living up to the standards you used to hold for them. By now, you think that memories are useless and hurtful, and you’re about to gather some new ones that you’d much rather forget.

When you tell Harry you’re going to war, she’s mad, but she’s always mad, now. She’s mad because things aren’t working out that well with Clara, and she’s mad because she’s lost her parents and now she’s losing her brother. She’s realizing that she doesn’t have very much to go on, so she goes on booze. She has about as much direction in her life as you do.

You make the decision to join the army on a whim. One night, you’re lying on the floor of Stephen’s flat because it’s too late to go home, and you tell him, “I don’t know what to do, so I think I’ll go save some people, I think.” Stephen’s only quiet for a moment or two when he says, “I think that’s a brilliant idea,” and the next morning you both file all the right papers.

You fall for Stephen the night after that. The revelation hits you like a ton of bricks. You get over it fast.

You and Stephen are both deployed some amount of pointless days spent wasting time after that. It’s the first time you feel like you’re doing something right when you put on your uniform. You’re an army doctor, you think to yourself. You’re doing something right.

Afghanistan is nothing like you’d expected. It’s beautiful, tarnished only by the destruction the war has brought it. The people there are kind, kinder than you’d ever expected. You think that if you were a native, you wouldn’t be nearly this kind to the soldiers fighting for the country that’s destroying yours.

Sometime later that week, a little Afghan girl who’d once given you a fresh-picked flower is killed accidentally in a bomb blast. You feel something in your chest that doesn’t belong there, something like a big hole. You cry yourself to sleep that night. You can’t save everyone who’s injured. The hole gets bigger. People die. That’s what people do, someone tells you. People die during wartime. The hole grows bigger still.

Stephen dies. You don’t think you can become any less empty than you are now. Your fall for Stephen has hit rock bottom, and your heart is ripped out of your vulnerable, human chest.

When you’re shot, it’s a welcome relief. You remember the man you’d been trying to save when it happened. His leg is blown to smithereens, and there’s nothing you can do for him. You transfer all your false hope into him. You’re a doctor. You can fix him. Everything will be all right.

He dies, and the hole gets bigger. You catch a glimpse of the wedding ring sparkling on his finger and think of his wife or husband back home. The hole gets bigger until it consumes you.

You feel a piercing pain in your shoulder, and you wonder if that’s it. If it is, you can’t complain. The hole turns into blackness and, this time, it really does consume you.

You develop the psychosomatic limp when you’re first allowed to walk after you’re sent home. The doctors are puzzled for a moment, because your leg was never injured. Then they see your records, nod, and send you to the psyche ward, because now the only problems left to fix in you are the ones in your mind.

You’re allowed out of the hospital about a week after that, and you’re showed to the flat you’re admitted on your army pension. You meet your psychiatrist that day, too. You don’t like her. She has no idea what she’s talking about.

For a long time, nothing happens to you, so the hole gets bigger. You have Mike Stamford to thank for it all, really. Without him, you’d never have moved out of that horrendous, dreary flat that makes the world seem too small, like it’s always about to meet its end. That flat was full of nightmares, and you’re relieved to be rid of it. It is one bridge you have no problem burning.

Sherlock Holmes is really something, you decide. You remember what it’s like to fall.

He’s not the type to let people in, really, you think as you observe him quietly. But he’s changed so much in you already. After just a couple of days with him, this stupendous, crazed, absolutely mental genius, you’ve discarded your psychosomatic limp and your eyes have gotten some of their life back. You know that for sure, because you’ve checked. You smile for the first time in _ages_.

Things aren’t all completely perfect in your life, and they probably never will be. You still haven’t bound your wounds with Harry, and you sometimes still have nightmares about the war, and there are some burnt bridges that can never be rebuilt, and you sometimes still miss Stephen. But the last one can be compensated for with Sherlock. You know that Stephen would like your eccentric flat mate— he’d always been the type. You think that if Stephen could see you now, how far you’ve come, he’d smile.

Sherlock falls for the very first time, for you, about a half year after you meet him. You’re glad that you’re changing him for the better, too. There’s something different in his eyes. You know, because you’ve checked. You finally feel like you’re on the right track.

At the end of it all, which is the beginning of the best, you think you’ve finally mastered the art of falling.


End file.
